


Homecoming

by sammyatstanford



Series: tumblr stories [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Non-Hunting AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 14:59:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: Dean picks Sam up from the airport when he comes home for summer break.





	Homecoming

Flying coach sucks. Flying coach and circling the airport for forty-five minutes before the plane can land, just to spend another thirty waiting for a gate to open up sucks even more. By the time Sam unfolds from the contortionist position necessary to fit himself into the torture-device-cum-airplane-seat and manages to shake some of the blood back into his legs, he’s regretting for the hundredth time that he hadn’t just let Dean take the time off of work to drive out and pick him up.

He grabs his backpack from the overhead bin, makes his slow way down the aisle to deplane, finds the nearest bathroom to relieve himself and wash his hands, splash water onto his face to try and make himself look at least a little more alive. Leaving campus immediately after his last final, not even time for a nap in between, maybe wasn’t the smartest idea but hey, a man has his reasons.

His heart is fluttering the whole time, makes him feel a little nauseous with excitement, but he ignores it, ignores the slight shake of his hands, walks evenly down to the train that will take him to baggage claim and waits the three minutes for it to arrive without giving into the desire to gnaw his thumbnail ragged.

Dean’s probably going to be pissed that his flight was so late, but it’ll be the first time Dean’s been pissed at him in person for six months.

He runs three-quarters of the way up the escalator but stops before the top because he doesn’t want to look like a big dork. Dean really doesn’t need anymore ammo on that front. 

There’s a crowd of people behind the ropes partitioning off the waiting area, but Sam’s eyes are immediately drawn to the neon pink posterboard sign that’s got the word PRINCESS written on it in black Sharpie and silver rhinestones glued all over. To the smirking face of the man holding it.

Sam does not run over. He walks at a completely reasonable normal pace that is definitely not a borderline jog.

“Hi,” Sam says, breathless, and all of a sudden he feels like he might cry.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says back, and for a second, Sam thinks they’re the only two people in the world. Then Dean’s pulling him in, arms around his back, and Sam tucks his face into the space between Dean’s shoulder and neck, breathes deep the smell of summer sweat and deodorant.

“I can’t believe you made that sign,” he scoffs when they finally pull apart, uses the movement of ducking under the rope that Dean’s pulled up for him to wipe surreptitiously at his cheeks.

“Well Samantha, I wanted to make sure you felt  _special_ ,” Dean answers, and Sam knows him well enough the hear the truth hiding in the sarcasm. They wait at baggage claim together, standing close enough that their shoulders are touching. Sam’s cheeks are aching from the smile he hasn’t let go of in five minutes. Dean insists on wheeling Sam’s suitcase out to the car and putting it into the trunk for him, and Sam lets him because he’s too happy to care.

Sam really loves Stanford, has loved every one of his four semesters there so far. 

He just also  _really_  loves Dean.

Dean climbs in beside him on the bench seat, puts the keys in the ignition but doesn’t start the car, and all of a sudden there’s electricity in the air and Sam can’t breathe for wanting. Dean’s watching him and he’s looking at Dean and he doesn’t know which one of them moves but they’re kissing, hot and desperate and so, so right that Sam feels it all the way down into his toes. He hadn’t forgotten, the feel of Dean’s hands on his face or the way Dean’s teeth feel under the drag of his tongue, but feeling it again after so long, it’s like the first time.

They pull apart after a minute, but Dean keeps him close, their foreheads pressed together so that Sam’s going cross-eyed trying to look at Dean’s freckles, make sure they’re all still exactly where he’d memorized.

“Glad you’re home,” Dean says, and Sam just groans, that hot press of tears behind his eyes all over again and Christ, seriously, when did he become such a sap? He tries to get his mouth on his brother’s again, but Dean shifts back just enough to put air between them.

“We gotta get going, mom and dad probably already have dinner ready ‘cause you were so late getting in.”

Sam tries not to pout. Dean’s right, and he’s excited to see their parents, too, it’s just that he’s also ready to press Dean face down into the Impala’s leather interior and put them all the way back together again.

“Besides,” Dean goes on, and now he’s looking at his hands and the seat and anywhere else that’s not Sam’s eyes, “I gotta show you something.” He lifts his hips and reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a folded computer print-out, presses it into Sam’s hands where they’re still hovering close to Dean’s body.

Sam shifts back far enough to unfold the paper, hold it out into the meager light of the parking deck so he can read it. It’s a job offer, for a garage that seems to do a lot of work on classic cars.

“You’re leaving Dad’s garage?” Sam asks, throwing his brother a confused look. That’s good news, as Sam’s never been fond of how his brother is always under Dad’s thumb, but he doesn’t particularly understand why Dean had to tell him this  _now_. Maybe he’s looking for backup in telling Dad while Sam’s in town? “Have you told him yet?”

“Yes,” Dean says, “but that’s not–just, um,  _look_.” He taps his finger back down on the paper, and Sam follows it obediently. Dean’s pointing at the email signature, and Sam holds the paper up to the light again to read the smaller text more clearly.

He almost drops the paper. His heart has probably stopped with all the beats it’s skipping.

His mouth opens and closes a few times without any sound coming out, and Dean’s staring at him like he’s under a magnifying glass. “Dean,” he says, finally. “Dean, is this–are you serious?”

“If you want me to be.”

“Dean, this garage is in Sacramento.”

“Well, yes, that’s kind of the point,” Dean jokes.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam scolds because this. This is serious. This is not a time for joking. This is.

This is everything Sam’s ever dreamed of, since he was thirteen years old and terrified of everything in his mind, in his heart.

“So?” Dean prompts, licks his lips like he’s nervous. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re an idiot if you don’t know what I think,” Sam answers, crowding so close to Dean that his brother’s back is cradled in the corner where his seat meets the driver’s side door. “I think this is just–.” His voice breaks, and he actually is crying now and he doesn’t even care, can’t be embarrassed because the last time he felt like this, Dean had just kissed him back for the very first time and Sam was holding the whole world in his hands.

“I love you,” Sam says, stares right into Dean’s eyes when he does because they don’t say it, hardly ever, but if the right moment exists, then this is it. “I love you.”

“Think you got room for two in that little studio apartment?” Dean asks, voice low and happy and Sam kisses the smirk right off his face.


End file.
